What do you wish today? If I could, I’d wave my magic wand and grant it.

Here’s a partial list of mine. Not complaining, mind — just, you know…if wishes were fishes and all.

I wish:

1. we could time it so our pets would leave this world with us instead of before us. (Seamus and Hannah have to say goodbye to their sweet dog, Willow, this Friday. We’re all heartbroken.)
2. we could all be forced to walk in the shoes of those less fortunate once in a while.
3. I could spend more time with my three grandsons.
4. Milky Way bars had like 15 calories.
5. I had running water in my building at school.
6. I didn’t have to get on a plane in order to visit Slovenia and the Netherlands.
7. there was more time to rehearse for this show (even though it seems like I’m at school every waking moment as it is).
8. I knew why professed Christians say, “I’ll forgive, but I won’t forget,” when Jesus forgave and forgot. It was good enough for the son of God, but…?
9. we could do that beaming-up thing from Star Trek.
10. there was more time in the mornings to write to you. I could get up at 4…

Nah, maybe not.

Hey, it’s Tunesday, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep. As David Hartman used to say, (can anyone remember?)…

FO

OK, true confession. Every once in a while, Dad would take a long sip of the iced tea Mavis and I had to make every night for dinner and then declare, “Ah, take tea and see!” I just thought he was being goofy, so I never thought anything about it.

Imagine my surprise to see the following as I began to read an article in the Times about Lipton going back to its roots with the basic black tea bags:

BACK in the “Mad Men” days, a trade organization known as the Tea Council of the U.S.A. celebrated the beverage its members sold with ads that carried the theme “Take tea and see.”

So THAT’S what he meant! And here’s the awesome commercial:

J’ever have a moment like that? Here it is, a hundred years later, and I finally get the punch line. Why didn’t I just ask?

Now THIS tea commercial I remember! Seems kind of dorky forty years later. OK, completely dorky.

Maybe I’ll go make some Lipton. Like, right now. One of these days, we’re going to have a big ol’ nostalgic remember that commercial? picnic here. And archive.org is probably the place to go for ammo. However, be warned: it’s one of those “Do NOT Go Here” sites, if yaknowwhatimean.

Hey, it’s Monkday, and there’s school to be taught. I’m happy today, even though none of “my” teams won in the playoffs this weekend. None. As in, not one.

Anyway, have a good one, fiends. I’m out.

…fit to print on a Saturday morning.

At the get-go: I don’t think this self-imposed hiatus is going anywhere. All I did every morning this week was try not to write. I’m close to giving up the vacation. What does one learn from a failed experiment? That sometimes, experiments fail.

Next.

So, did you really think you’d escape reading about the latest Cleveland Shuffle? From the Browns front office: Shurmur’s out, Chud is in. Another experiment — try not to go anywhere near attempting to figure out what management was thinking in this situation. I just hope I’m ten kinds of wrong, and it works. Something has to this time, or the merry-go-round is just going to run out of steam and all the pretty little horses…

OK, enough with the metaphor. Time to get to work.

Busy weekend of recording for Joseph, getting grades in the grade book, and hopefully seeing some grandsons. Lars, Helen and Mr. A. are coming for lunch tomorrow; gotta try to plan out some time to see the Js.

But first: take an hour to start the final season of West Wing. I hate when I know a thing is coming to an end.

Happy weekend, fiends — let’s roll!

…with a temporary solution.

My new resolution is — for the months of January and February only — to try to curb my addiction to blogging, so I can get other stuff done between the hours of 5 and 6 a.m. every weekday. Weekends are open.

It’s a difficult thing for me, since writing is a pastime I enjoy almost more than any other hobby; so much so, in fact, that I wish it wasn’t a hobby, if you get my drift.

Anyway.

I wonder if I could take a quick poll of interest (and yes, this will require lurkers to come out of the shadows, temporarily!). If you would like to be notified by email when there’s a new post here at RtB so you won’t have to constantly check out the homepage, please indicate your interest via commenting below. Here’s the deal:

1. For anyone who comments — or has ever commented in the past — here, I already have your email address, as long as your posting name is the same.
2. For those who have never commented, posting a comment below will give me your email address (but it won’t be shown in public, so only I will have it).
3. Once I have your email address, I can notify you when I post new content here.

Would you be interested in something like that? I know everyone’s busy. If you’d rather just take your chances and be surprised (or better yet, dig into the archives and leave some cool comments for me to find next time I log in), no problem. I just want to make things more convenient for my 100 worldwide readers.

As anyone who’s ever commented here already knows, I will never send you any kind of marketing email. See all the ads on this site? Oh, wait…

So. Tell me your articulate and compendious thoughts. Would you like to be notified over the next couple of months when I publish new drivel?

Ready, steady, comment.

Much love from the soon-to-be hairless Fink

Once in a while, we just need to come clean. Purge. Confess. I will do so this day, and I want you to join me, after which I will submit pithy and succinct remarks.

True Confessions I was pretty revealing to some, but I didn’t ask for you to bare your souls along with me. Why shouldn’t my fiends join in the fun, ja?

Here are a few oddities off the top of my pointy head to get us started. Some of you will already know these things about me, and some will go, “Hmm. She is peculiar.” (Some will say that anyway.)

1. I hate to talk on the phone. There are exceptions, of course. If we have something to talk about specifically, no problem. It’s the talking on the phone to just talk…or talking on the phone when I am largely responsible for keeping the conversation going…NO. Email or text me instead.
2. I am completely grossed out by lipstick. I don’t want to be, trust me. And strangely enough, I’m addicted to Chapstick. SOME lip glosses are OK, as long as they aren’t slimy. But even looking at an ad or a commercial featuring shiny, wet-looking glop just makes me urpy. I recently bought some Maybelline Baby Lips tinted lip balm, in cherry flavor (my favorite). And while it smells good and is not slimy, it’s RED. Like cherries. Duh. In the drawer it goes.
3. I refuse to touch a door knob in a public place with my bare hands. And I’m no germophobe, trust me. Cripes, I’m a teacher and a grandmother. I get hugs and high fives. But there’s just something about touching a thing that all manner of unidentified germy fingers have caressed in the last 10 minutes…oy. My sleeves get a workout. And what happens when I’m not wearing long sleeves? I do a weird, convoluted grasp on the knob, involving as little of my finger surface as possible, then find somewhere to wash my hands. That works well in my high school’s main office, where the door knob is the typical spherical kind, as opposed to the rectangular handle you can push down with the back of your hand, and there’s a sink nearby in the teacher lounge. The fact that I put this much thought into door knobs is troubling, I know.

OK, there’s a few of mine (unfortunately, there are more). Now let’s see a few of yours. Got one you’re willing to share? And by “willing to share,” I mean “willing to admit to without incriminating yourself in a court of law.”

Ready, steady, go. Confess! It’s good for the soul.